Max is NOW!

//the poet//
Time is a funny, fickle thing. In time all things are possible, they say. This much would seem true. The world comes together in perfect resonance and harmony. All things ring with beauty and passion. Love falls from the sky on to our heads. Peace finds home in the hearts of deep slumbers. All is one, the multitude follow sequence on the pulse of our souls. …then one night, we awaken to the autumn turning. The crisp blades of dark days slice between our oneness of now. What once was harmony stumbles on the snares of chaos and disaffection. The threads of fate quickly grow dry and brittle, passing roughly on the hands of our weavers. But none is a surprise. As they said, ‘in time all things are possible.’ Even the benefit of a perfect moment meets its destruction in the ticking hands of tomorrow. And so is the history of man from each golden second, we squeeze the juice of our own tragedy. So is the history of tonight. That clarity of now, shattered in the wake of soon; from this apex we descend. Dark, deep, cold descent.
My brother, the man, is caught in the disclarity. It brings me to tears like an infant. My world, the place where I wake, is defiled and lost.

//the philosopher//
The signifieds have become incomplete. From each moment to the next, these constellations of social space have gone from definite to vacuous mass. Bodies, now, floating through the voids of human interaction. The signifier is unable to navigate. Constructs understood as “living” and “being” have buckled under the pressure of unbearable lightness. There is no choice for the signifier, but to shed the skins of his past. To construct the new “living,” the new way of “being.” There is nothing but the disjunction of understanding, a shift in the world itself. Within the void, all signification is lost, but in the oneness there is no differentiation.

//the soul//
Who am I to feel like this? I am sick, I am uneasy, I am ready to vomit now. All is lost. But for how long? I know honesty and levity. Murky are the minds, they lack vision of truth and ignore the whispers of time past. Of course all is empty! This is the oldest of silent understandings. Fullness is not bleeding from the spacious wounds in reality, but from the eyes and the ears of all. Their pens spitting words and stories and meanings. And who am I but a fleeting apparition, an insatiable passion? I, poor soul, will soon dissipate into the mist of the Real. But before I pass, one emotive you should not forget: this moment, this void, this vacuum, this emptiness. Remember the terror of this moment floating away. Remember when everything melted into laughter….but you, poor man…you have already forgotten.

//the void//
So it is. Then not. Then is. The fate of man, pulled into something and pushed out to nothing. It is fate. Nothing more.

//the man//
Life is beautiful.